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Mar 16, 2011 06:33PM
just sent the edit of Sockeye Love back to the editors- yipee! It's coming out in May, I think. I'm really happy with it.
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Idaho Battlegrounds- this story is about DADT- and love, of course!
congrats to LadyM, winner of a free copy of Murder at Black Dog Springs! Thanks to our friends at Jessewave for sponsoring!
I've got Feliz's new story Desert Falcon to read on Saturday morning! Yipee!
read my interview with Feliz Faber on her new book Desert Falcon- Goodreads blog!
Just got a contract for something quirky- short story called Slackline- coming in July! Anybody been on a slackline?
It's rainy and cold in Boise and the sky is the color of dead television- not my line- I stole it from William Gibson- Neuromancer. But everytime the sky looks like this, like it could weep and weep, and spring will never come, I think of that line.
So only thing to do is write a story set in Hawaii- did you know that the town of Hanalei, on the north coast of Kauai, is the Hanalei of Peter Paul and Mary's Puff the Magic Dragon!? That fact alone is worth a story.
Okay, SWEET BLUE LOVE and I'll send it to Lynn for a free read when it's done, and by that time, warm tropical winds will be blowing over Boise!
So only thing to do is write a story set in Hawaii- did you know that the town of Hanalei, on the north coast of Kauai, is the Hanalei of Peter Paul and Mary's Puff the Magic Dragon!? That fact alone is worth a story.
Okay, SWEET BLUE LOVE and I'll send it to Lynn for a free read when it's done, and by that time, warm tropical winds will be blowing over Boise!
check out my blog post here on Goodreads- I've solved the mystery of why MOTHERHOOD IS KILLING US
Free Reads on my LJ- St. Sebastian and the Ravioli of Love- a story in stories- the only thing I've ever written with even a hint of bondage.
http://sarahblack5.livejournal.com/36...
http://sarahblack5.livejournal.com/36...
The lovely ladies of Dreamspinner are going to publish Death of a Grievous Angel! I just got a contract. Yipee!
Sockeye Love is out today from Dreamspinner! Here's an excerpt:
Wildlife photographer Grey Morisette is living a half-life, quietly mourning his lover, Saya Kihn, who disappeared twelve years earlier into the infamous Insein Prison in Rangoon.
Grey takes a picture of Sal Sanchez falling into an Alaskan river with a sockeye salmon in his arms. Sal’s a law student, and his passion for the environment and love for the native tribes, his beautiful young face and eager hands, cannot be ignored. But there isn’t room in Grey’s heart for two lovers. How can he bear to let Saya Kihn go, after loving him so long, and reach out for the love Sal is offering him?
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
The soft light of dawn filled the tent, and Grey rolled over, looked into the face of the man next to him. Strong jaw, covered in dark whiskers, soft young mouth, lashes against his cheek. Grey smiled when he opened sleepy eyes. “Hey. You want some coffee?”
A quick shake of the head. “Thanks, I’ve got to go. We’re supposed to go into the village this morning, talk to the elders.” He hesitated, and his face looked suddenly shy. “Thanks for last night. I mean…”
“Yeah, kid, it was great…”
“Ben. My name is Ben.”
Grey reached up, traced across the boy’s forehead with his fingertips, over his nose and down across his mouth. “You’ve got pretty brown eyes, Ben.”
That got him a quick smile, and he watched Ben scramble up, tug on his jeans and sweatshirt. He turned around before he ducked out of the door. “Thanks, Grey. You’re a legend, man.”
Grey gave him a little salute, watched his young butt when he bent over and wiggled out of the low door to the tent.
Grey Morisette was a legend with a camera, not in a sleeping bag. He lay back for a moment, enjoying the warmth of the tent, the smell of a sweaty boy, the pleasant stretch in his thighs from the climb yesterday. Ben split pretty fast, he thought. No coffee and morning snuggle. Maybe because you couldn’t remember his name, dickhead.
He slipped his sheepskin boots on over his jeans, climbed out of the tent. There was a smoky drift from wood campfires on the cold air, the smell of coffee pots starting to bubble. He walked upriver to his favorite big spruce tree, took a leak, then went back to the tent and pulled out his camera. He hated not having a camera in his hand. He’d spent his entire life afraid the one perfect shot was going to happen right in front of him, and he wouldn’t have a camera ready to catch it.
The campsite was nestled among a grove of Sitka spruce, near the headwaters of Bristol Bay, where the great rivers of Alaska came together and spilled out into the Bering Sea. They’d gathered to document the salmon run, maybe the last wild salmon in these waters, or anywhere. If Pebble built the open pit mine they wanted, this land would be gone, poisoned beyond repair, the huge, open mine like an ulcer that would never heal. The sulfuric acid they would use to leach the gold from the rock would spread into the groundwater like cancer. So a group of activists, writers, and photographers had gathered here for the last week of summer to watch the salmon run.
Grey knew that the young environmentalists had not given up. They talked in excited voices, eager as young pronghorns in spring, ready to save the world. They were going to start with Bristol Bay, and they didn’t have any doubt they would win.
Grey didn’t have any illusions about who was going to win this battle. He’d seen too many fights with enthusiasm and youth and the unquantifiable value of nature pitted against money. He just wanted to get it all down before it was gone, show the world what they had lost. “You’re sounding pretty cynical, old man.”
Maybe cynical, maybe realistic. The world was what it was. He pulled off the lens cap, checked the lens and lifted the camera. The soft morning light, little smoky campfires and bright yellow tents like downed balloons dotting the ground, strong, eager, passionate boys and girls in jeans and messy hair, already talking about what to do, making plans to save this little part of Alaska. This photo would be for him, Grey thought, to remember this trip, and all the trips like it.
Wildlife photographer Grey Morisette is living a half-life, quietly mourning his lover, Saya Kihn, who disappeared twelve years earlier into the infamous Insein Prison in Rangoon.
Grey takes a picture of Sal Sanchez falling into an Alaskan river with a sockeye salmon in his arms. Sal’s a law student, and his passion for the environment and love for the native tribes, his beautiful young face and eager hands, cannot be ignored. But there isn’t room in Grey’s heart for two lovers. How can he bear to let Saya Kihn go, after loving him so long, and reach out for the love Sal is offering him?
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
The soft light of dawn filled the tent, and Grey rolled over, looked into the face of the man next to him. Strong jaw, covered in dark whiskers, soft young mouth, lashes against his cheek. Grey smiled when he opened sleepy eyes. “Hey. You want some coffee?”
A quick shake of the head. “Thanks, I’ve got to go. We’re supposed to go into the village this morning, talk to the elders.” He hesitated, and his face looked suddenly shy. “Thanks for last night. I mean…”
“Yeah, kid, it was great…”
“Ben. My name is Ben.”
Grey reached up, traced across the boy’s forehead with his fingertips, over his nose and down across his mouth. “You’ve got pretty brown eyes, Ben.”
That got him a quick smile, and he watched Ben scramble up, tug on his jeans and sweatshirt. He turned around before he ducked out of the door. “Thanks, Grey. You’re a legend, man.”
Grey gave him a little salute, watched his young butt when he bent over and wiggled out of the low door to the tent.
Grey Morisette was a legend with a camera, not in a sleeping bag. He lay back for a moment, enjoying the warmth of the tent, the smell of a sweaty boy, the pleasant stretch in his thighs from the climb yesterday. Ben split pretty fast, he thought. No coffee and morning snuggle. Maybe because you couldn’t remember his name, dickhead.
He slipped his sheepskin boots on over his jeans, climbed out of the tent. There was a smoky drift from wood campfires on the cold air, the smell of coffee pots starting to bubble. He walked upriver to his favorite big spruce tree, took a leak, then went back to the tent and pulled out his camera. He hated not having a camera in his hand. He’d spent his entire life afraid the one perfect shot was going to happen right in front of him, and he wouldn’t have a camera ready to catch it.
The campsite was nestled among a grove of Sitka spruce, near the headwaters of Bristol Bay, where the great rivers of Alaska came together and spilled out into the Bering Sea. They’d gathered to document the salmon run, maybe the last wild salmon in these waters, or anywhere. If Pebble built the open pit mine they wanted, this land would be gone, poisoned beyond repair, the huge, open mine like an ulcer that would never heal. The sulfuric acid they would use to leach the gold from the rock would spread into the groundwater like cancer. So a group of activists, writers, and photographers had gathered here for the last week of summer to watch the salmon run.
Grey knew that the young environmentalists had not given up. They talked in excited voices, eager as young pronghorns in spring, ready to save the world. They were going to start with Bristol Bay, and they didn’t have any doubt they would win.
Grey didn’t have any illusions about who was going to win this battle. He’d seen too many fights with enthusiasm and youth and the unquantifiable value of nature pitted against money. He just wanted to get it all down before it was gone, show the world what they had lost. “You’re sounding pretty cynical, old man.”
Maybe cynical, maybe realistic. The world was what it was. He pulled off the lens cap, checked the lens and lifted the camera. The soft morning light, little smoky campfires and bright yellow tents like downed balloons dotting the ground, strong, eager, passionate boys and girls in jeans and messy hair, already talking about what to do, making plans to save this little part of Alaska. This photo would be for him, Grey thought, to remember this trip, and all the trips like it.
Sarah I picked up a copy today and can't wait to read it.
Lily wrote: "Sarah I picked up a copy today and can't wait to read it."
Thanks! I hope you like it- I really enjoyed writing this.
Thanks! I hope you like it- I really enjoyed writing this.
thanks to the reviewers for the great reviews of SOCKEYE LOVE! I really indulged myself with this story, wrote exactly the story I wanted to tell to myself. I'm so pleased others like it, too.
my sweet little summer story is out in the morning!
Slackline by Sarah Black- out today at Dreamspinner!
Blurb: When Bobby Kincaid is walking the slackline – a narrow, flat webbed rope stretched between two anchor points – he offers a silent gift of beauty to the air and sky. Making peace with the world is one reason he’s drawn to the seastacks off Scotland’s Orkney Islands. Colin Rose, the Olympic skier who pushed Bobby away after a horrific accident two years earlier, is another. But Bobby and Colin will each need to heal before they can return to that space between earth and heaven where they both can fly.
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/stor...
Excerpt:
Bobby was breaking the most important rule for slackliners, the critical rule, numero uno, the Prime Directive. But the very fact that he was breaking this rule meant he would never be caught. The strangely circular logic appealed to him, as did the quiet, and the clean salty smell of the wind. He was setting up a slackline across the sea of Hoy, from one of the famous seastacks that dotted the Orkney coast. And he was going to walk it alone.
Not very safe; there was no question it was risky, probably stupid, highly dangerous. But it was worth it for the silence. No chattering from the other climbers, no cameras strapped to heads filming the whole deal. This was the way slacklining was supposed to be—the only sounds the waves, and the wind, the only audience the strange, flat-eyed seabirds who watched him set up the anchors. Man on a tightrope, walking across one of the coldest, rockiest seas on earth. For the beauty of it all, and the pleasure of doing it.
It was more than just pleasure. Bobby had developed an entire theoretical model of slacklining in his head, the result of many hours of solo hiking and climbing and walking on bouncing tightropes. This model was why he was crouched at the base of the Old Man of Hoy, wrapping his anchors around the rocks.
Slacklining, he explained to the birds, should be a silent gift of beauty. It should be offered up to the air, and the sky, with no witnesses, no sponsors, no sounds, other than a quiet thank you for the day, and the bounce in the line, and the ability of his body to move through the yoga routine called Salute to the Sun. He suspected that gifts of beauty such as his, offered up with a clean heart, would somehow alter the karmic load of pain that was dragging civilization to its knees.
But he refused all such thoughts of the consequences, good or bad, concentrated on making something beautiful and pure, his gift to the world. He stepped out on the line.
The slackline was a narrow flat webbing rope, pulled almost taut, but with a bit of bounce. His feet, snug in their Vibram Five-Fingers, curled around the line, and he crouched, arms outstretched, until he found his center.
He started into his routine, the Surya Namaskar, Salute to the Sun. This had been the first yoga series he had mastered, and it was still his favorite to do on a slackline. The line felt good under his feet, strong and with just enough give. He was halfway through the routine, with salt spray on his lips and the sun just touching the sea, when a nasty wind came up off the water and tumbled him off the line.
It felt like he had been falling forever, that his outstretched arms had turned into wings. But thoughts of Icarus filled his head, wax melting in the sun and feathers tumbling into the sky. He was going to miss the rocks, he was sure of it, and braced himself for the shock of falling into arctic water.
A second gust of wind howled around the Old Man, so loudly he wanted to clap his hands over his ears, and it tumbled him head over heels. He tried to tuck his knees in, with some vague idea of rolling, but there was no rolling, only the rough North Sea and the rocky shoreline waiting below.
His right shoulder and arm hit a sharp edge of rock under the surface of the water. He tried to pull his head up, but it was too late, and his last thought before his face slammed into the rock was that he was probably not going to see Colin Rose after all.
Slackline by Sarah Black- out today at Dreamspinner!
Blurb: When Bobby Kincaid is walking the slackline – a narrow, flat webbed rope stretched between two anchor points – he offers a silent gift of beauty to the air and sky. Making peace with the world is one reason he’s drawn to the seastacks off Scotland’s Orkney Islands. Colin Rose, the Olympic skier who pushed Bobby away after a horrific accident two years earlier, is another. But Bobby and Colin will each need to heal before they can return to that space between earth and heaven where they both can fly.
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/stor...
Excerpt:
Bobby was breaking the most important rule for slackliners, the critical rule, numero uno, the Prime Directive. But the very fact that he was breaking this rule meant he would never be caught. The strangely circular logic appealed to him, as did the quiet, and the clean salty smell of the wind. He was setting up a slackline across the sea of Hoy, from one of the famous seastacks that dotted the Orkney coast. And he was going to walk it alone.
Not very safe; there was no question it was risky, probably stupid, highly dangerous. But it was worth it for the silence. No chattering from the other climbers, no cameras strapped to heads filming the whole deal. This was the way slacklining was supposed to be—the only sounds the waves, and the wind, the only audience the strange, flat-eyed seabirds who watched him set up the anchors. Man on a tightrope, walking across one of the coldest, rockiest seas on earth. For the beauty of it all, and the pleasure of doing it.
It was more than just pleasure. Bobby had developed an entire theoretical model of slacklining in his head, the result of many hours of solo hiking and climbing and walking on bouncing tightropes. This model was why he was crouched at the base of the Old Man of Hoy, wrapping his anchors around the rocks.
Slacklining, he explained to the birds, should be a silent gift of beauty. It should be offered up to the air, and the sky, with no witnesses, no sponsors, no sounds, other than a quiet thank you for the day, and the bounce in the line, and the ability of his body to move through the yoga routine called Salute to the Sun. He suspected that gifts of beauty such as his, offered up with a clean heart, would somehow alter the karmic load of pain that was dragging civilization to its knees.
But he refused all such thoughts of the consequences, good or bad, concentrated on making something beautiful and pure, his gift to the world. He stepped out on the line.
The slackline was a narrow flat webbing rope, pulled almost taut, but with a bit of bounce. His feet, snug in their Vibram Five-Fingers, curled around the line, and he crouched, arms outstretched, until he found his center.
He started into his routine, the Surya Namaskar, Salute to the Sun. This had been the first yoga series he had mastered, and it was still his favorite to do on a slackline. The line felt good under his feet, strong and with just enough give. He was halfway through the routine, with salt spray on his lips and the sun just touching the sea, when a nasty wind came up off the water and tumbled him off the line.
It felt like he had been falling forever, that his outstretched arms had turned into wings. But thoughts of Icarus filled his head, wax melting in the sun and feathers tumbling into the sky. He was going to miss the rocks, he was sure of it, and braced himself for the shock of falling into arctic water.
A second gust of wind howled around the Old Man, so loudly he wanted to clap his hands over his ears, and it tumbled him head over heels. He tried to tuck his knees in, with some vague idea of rolling, but there was no rolling, only the rough North Sea and the rocky shoreline waiting below.
His right shoulder and arm hit a sharp edge of rock under the surface of the water. He tried to pull his head up, but it was too late, and his last thought before his face slammed into the rock was that he was probably not going to see Colin Rose after all.
here was some of my very fun research writing SLACKLINE! Boy on a slackline over the beautiful Cote d’Azur!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?gl=US&am...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?gl=US&am...
Free story on my Goodreads blog called Mari Moto's Magical Dragon! A Portland story-
Gabriel’s New Spongebob Playlist! (And an excerpt from The General and the Elephant Clock of Al-Jazari)
(author’s note: The playlist didn’t make it into the new story because John threw the Spongebob speaker against a wall. But I love this playlist.)
Gabriel was grinning at him. “I’ve got something new, and I downloaded all the new songs to the iPod. Kim gave me this portable speaker that looks like Spongebob so we can have a little private dance time.”
“Spongebob?”
“Spongebob Squarepants.”
“What the hell does that even mean?”
Gabriel studied him, hands on his hips. “Let me go talk to the crew. Get your swimsuit on. When I get back, I think you and I need to test out that beautiful pool. John, this hotel is like where you go for your honeymoon or something. I am not leaving before we get a chance to swim.”
“Yeah, okay. Wait, wait! I need to speak to Sam. Go over the backup plan in case Jen gets snatched tomorrow. Send him in here.”
Gabriel sighed. “Yes, General.”
Sam stuck his head in the door. “Sir?”
“Come on in. Okay, let’s go over the plan if something happens to Jennifer, like she gets arrested or separated from the rest of the group, and you’re on your own.” Sam’s face blanched. “It’s not a crisis as long as you have a plan, Sam. Okay, so what’s your job?”
Sam pointed to himself. “My job?”
“Yes! What is your job with regards to Jennifer Painter?”
“My job is to protect her with my life.”
“Correct. Now, what do we do if she is taken? What will you do if I’m not here?”
Sam thought a moment. “I go to the embassy. I can also get Wylie and Jackson to help.”
“Perfect. No problem, kiddo. You’ve got backup for a snatch and grab, and then you get her to her father’s people in Algeria. This is absolutely not going to happen, but you only ever need a backup plan when you don’t have one.” John studied his shattered face. Sam was more than a little overwhelmed, but John had no doubt he would rise to the occasion if need be. “You’ll be fine. I have every confidence in you.”
He gave John a doubtful look, then closed the door quietly behind him. Gabriel still had his hands on his hips. “You are out of control. I’m about to wrestle you to the ground and stick a tranquilizer dart in your butt.”
John stopped in mid-thought, his mind wheeling like a flock of starlings. What had he just said? Tranquilizer dart in the butt? Gabriel’s eyes were smiling, dark and wild and full of light, like the night sky over New Mexico. Gabriel walked across the room, put his hand flat on John’s belly. “Breathe, General. There we go. We’ve got plenty of time. Everything’s going to work out.” He slid his hand lower. “Just breathe.”
80’s Spongebob Playlist
ZZ Top Tush http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCLXy-...
James Brown Living in America http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHqUip...
Bruce Springsteen Dancing in the Dark http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=129kuD...
John Cougar Mellencamp Pink Houses http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=53OV4E...
Bob Seger Like a Rock http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=keIvA2...
(author’s note: The playlist didn’t make it into the new story because John threw the Spongebob speaker against a wall. But I love this playlist.)
Gabriel was grinning at him. “I’ve got something new, and I downloaded all the new songs to the iPod. Kim gave me this portable speaker that looks like Spongebob so we can have a little private dance time.”
“Spongebob?”
“Spongebob Squarepants.”
“What the hell does that even mean?”
Gabriel studied him, hands on his hips. “Let me go talk to the crew. Get your swimsuit on. When I get back, I think you and I need to test out that beautiful pool. John, this hotel is like where you go for your honeymoon or something. I am not leaving before we get a chance to swim.”
“Yeah, okay. Wait, wait! I need to speak to Sam. Go over the backup plan in case Jen gets snatched tomorrow. Send him in here.”
Gabriel sighed. “Yes, General.”
Sam stuck his head in the door. “Sir?”
“Come on in. Okay, let’s go over the plan if something happens to Jennifer, like she gets arrested or separated from the rest of the group, and you’re on your own.” Sam’s face blanched. “It’s not a crisis as long as you have a plan, Sam. Okay, so what’s your job?”
Sam pointed to himself. “My job?”
“Yes! What is your job with regards to Jennifer Painter?”
“My job is to protect her with my life.”
“Correct. Now, what do we do if she is taken? What will you do if I’m not here?”
Sam thought a moment. “I go to the embassy. I can also get Wylie and Jackson to help.”
“Perfect. No problem, kiddo. You’ve got backup for a snatch and grab, and then you get her to her father’s people in Algeria. This is absolutely not going to happen, but you only ever need a backup plan when you don’t have one.” John studied his shattered face. Sam was more than a little overwhelmed, but John had no doubt he would rise to the occasion if need be. “You’ll be fine. I have every confidence in you.”
He gave John a doubtful look, then closed the door quietly behind him. Gabriel still had his hands on his hips. “You are out of control. I’m about to wrestle you to the ground and stick a tranquilizer dart in your butt.”
John stopped in mid-thought, his mind wheeling like a flock of starlings. What had he just said? Tranquilizer dart in the butt? Gabriel’s eyes were smiling, dark and wild and full of light, like the night sky over New Mexico. Gabriel walked across the room, put his hand flat on John’s belly. “Breathe, General. There we go. We’ve got plenty of time. Everything’s going to work out.” He slid his hand lower. “Just breathe.”
80’s Spongebob Playlist
ZZ Top Tush http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCLXy-...
James Brown Living in America http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHqUip...
Bruce Springsteen Dancing in the Dark http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=129kuD...
John Cougar Mellencamp Pink Houses http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=53OV4E...
Bob Seger Like a Rock http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=keIvA2...
My poem about fishing in a finalist in the POETRY group's monthly contest! Come give me a shout out!
I've got a Meet the Author scheduled weekend after next- I'll be posting my completed reader/writer interviews and the word collages we made together! They are so much fun- check out my GR blog to see a preview-
TJ Klune, Madison Parker- you guys rock! Lammy finalists! We need a tee shirt! We need to go to lunch!
My poem Daedalus Wakes from a Dream of Flying has been published in St Sebastian's Review, a queer Christian literary journal. The issue is wonderful- check it out!
http://stsebastianreview.com/current/
http://stsebastianreview.com/current/
My new avatar is a mixed media self portrait of me dancing- an abstract painting that I think is what all women writers look like, when we're writing-
